Punching Bags

This isn't the typical kind of advice-giving blog I usually do. I may not even keep this one up long. It's more of a story: Something I want to share, because it will perhaps help someone else somehow.

This has been what I have begun to refer to as "The Summer From Hell".  A culmination of events spanning over almost a year that came to a head this summer, with lasting effects.  I won't go into specific details, but suffice it to say in many ways it's been like a nightmare I can't wake up from.

I've been under a tremendous amount of stress for the past 10 months or so.  More stress than I ever have been before in my 45 years of life.  And watching family members go through even more stress than I am going through is the most stressful thing of all.

The reality of the enormity of the situation came to light last Thursday afternoon. I went to the gym Friday morning. Coincidentally, Friday my workout partner, Ivory, was not able to be there. I was on my own.

My first exercise was split squats on the Smith machine. I did my first set, but my heart was not in it.

I stood there, leaning against the Smith bar, and thought of all that had come down: How much all the garbage had impacted so many areas of the lives of so many people.  How much I personally ached with the tremendous loss I felt.  There seemed to be a suppressing weight on my shoulders that there simply are not words to describe. The closest I can come is that it felt like I was literally being broken inside.

I thought to myself "I don't want to be here." If ever I had justification to leave the gym for emotional reasons, this was it. If you knew the circumstances, you'd tell me I could have left and had no reason to feel guilt, too. I knew this. I was ready to walk out the door.

Normally Ivory would be there to tell me to finish my workout, dang it. Or I would stick around simply to not leave him hanging. But he wasn't there. Maybe, I thought, that was a sign I shouldn't be there that day- that it was okay, just this once, to leave.

Then I looked up, and directly in my range of vision, not 20 feet in front of me, was a man in a wheel chair. I have seen this man at the gym almost every time I've been there since I started coming about a month ago. It is clear his handicap leaves him unable to walk. But still he comes in and does what he can. Which, in our gym, is not a whole lot. Most of our machines and the set up are for people who have four functioning limbs.

But there he was, boxing away at a punching bag- the only form of cardio he can get. And he doesn't even have anyone to hold the bag, so it's just swinging around wildly. Hardly the workout it should be. But still, he was doing what he could with what he had.

As I watched him I slowly began to realized how blessed I was. Did my situation suck? Yeah. Was I under stress? Yes- tremendous stress. Were family members hurting and suffering in ways that were going to more than likely have devastating effects for years to come? Yep.

But the fact was that I still had things to be grateful for. I HAD family to hurt me- Maybe this guy did not. I HAD legs to walk me around- this guy did not. I drive a truck to the gym- This guy drives his wheelchair. I have a workout partner (most days). This guy works out alone.

I still didn't want to work out, but suddenly I didn't feel as sorry for myself anymore. So my mind made a bargain with my body: "I'll just finish my 5 sets of this exercise. If at that point I feel like going home, I can. No guilt."

I kept my deal with myself and finished those 5 sets. The guy in the wheel chair kept punching away at that bag.

And you know the rest of the story, don't you?

Well.... humor me and finish reading it, anyhow, K? (You made it this far!)

No surprise- Exactly what I had hoped would happen, happened. By the end of the 5th set of split squats (15 each leg per set), I had completely forgotten the deal I made with myself and went on to the next exercise, and the next, and the next. I finished a very challenging glute and ab workout (over an hours worth), then did a full cardio routine, and THEN spent 15 minutes stretching. I didn't even think about the fact that I'd wanted to leave until long after I'd gone home.

I've learned a few things about myself over the past 26+ years of working out. One of them is that with my propensity towards severe depression, working out helps to keep me off of head meds. It gives me a sunnier outlook. That was a lot of the reason I made the bargain with myself to stay there- I wanted the mood-boosting effects of the workout, if I could just stick around that long.

Working out also gives me something steady and sure in the often-rocky waters of life. The iron will always be there. It's not going to fail me. It's not going to lie. It doesn't care who believes what about me, and it's never going to sling a zinger meant to pierce my heart. It's just there, steady and sure, giving me a positive place to channel my emotions, be they the height of happiness of the pit of despair. The gym gives me a place to pull myself out of my emotional hole. It's my safety zone.

My problems aren't going away. I know this. But the man in the wheelchair? His problems aren't going away either. And yet there he is, day after day, week after week, doing what he can to make himself the best him he can be. He doesn't use his obstacles as an excuses to quit, so why should I?

Maybe some day I'll thank him. Or.... Maybe next time I'll simply hold the bag for him, and let him slug away.